


the end of all things

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood n stuff, F/M, Lavellan Hates The Fade, Lavellan Tolerates The Fade But Only For Fade Kisses, Minor Violence, but she only does it to piss him off so does it rly count, custom lavellan also this is not ellana sorry, ex boyfriends u lowkey wanna set on fire, lots of pretentious angst, mentions of Lavellan/other(s), quickly devolving into a hot n cold relationship lol oops, spoilers for Trespasser dlc, spoilers for egg romance etc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "If nothing else, you must believe that my heart -- whatever is left of it -- has always been yours."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted a place to put my solasmance shorts so ,,,,, here we are. I guess we're starting off with the gross angst stuff but like... I don't plan to have these in any sort of chronological order at all bc I am a mess ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Lavellan is named Dia and she's two-handed warrior class, other than that... it doesn't rly matter right now 
> 
> I'll add tags/up the rating as needed ^^
> 
> Edit; I was still editing this and didn't mean to post AND I DON'T KNOW HWO TO TAKE IT DOWN w/OUT DELETING IT ALL SO HERE I GUESS FUCK

_My heart belongs to a monster_ , she thinks, staring him down for this final time. His shoulders are set, much like his jaw, but he cannot hide the underlying regret in his eyes -- in his shaking hands -- no matter how hard he might try. _Worse, even_.  _My heart belongs to a monster who feels._

And it's really the worst case scenario, literally _sleeping with the enemy._  Sera would probably cackle that mad laugh of hers, once she got over the ' _holy shit elven-glory is actually ELVEN GLORY_ ' state of shock. She might not be the only one laughing, now that she's thinking back to the initial reactions to their short-lived romance. Dia imagines she'll hear a plethora of ' _I told you something was wrong with him_ ' when she returns which, unsurprisingly, makes her really, really not want to. But she must. Because this monster who feels is wrong and misguided and even if he loves her still it changes little. 

_he wants to take her entire world_

_and she will not let him_  

"I suspect you have questions," he muses, his face giving away nothing. His body language tells her enough. 

She wants to laugh in his face. Her throat is too tightly constricted for more than a few words. "A few," she answers curtly. 

"We do not have much time, I'm afraid." 

Eyes flickering towards her hand, his mark. The thing that is slowly killing her from the inside out, not unlike the aftermath of him ripping her heart from her chest without so much a flinch as the pulsing organ bloodied his pale hands. Her lips twitch downwards. He hasn't earned the right to have so much care in his eyes, not for her, maybe not for anyone that wasn't born about two thousand years ago, with magic humming under their skin, and elven ears. As the mark sparks up once more, she gets out through gritted teeth, "I trusted you. We _all_ trusted you." 

"Ir abelas, ma vhenan **."**

"Don't call me that." 

His lips purse. Anger? Irritation? She can work with that. "And yet, that is all I can say." 

" _Sorry_ isn't going to keep me alive." But is there life in the world that he aches for? Not for her, not for elves who can't maintain touch with their magical heritage. Not for the first time she wonders; how did he ever love someone like her? For all she is lacking in his eyes, there isn't much left to make up for it. "The mark," she realizes with a scowl. The only constant between them. The power that brought them together. _HIS_. Of course. "Is that why...?" 

"It's... what drew me to Haven... to your side," he says it straight faced, but there is no mistaking he is taken aback by the vague question. 

"It's what drew you to _me_." 

"I did not say that." 

"You might as well have. Without this," she holds up her lame hand, a burst of anger burning in her gut like a wildfire. "We'd never have met, or...Even if we did meet by chance, you'd have been entirely uninterested because I'm not a mage. Don't play games with me -- we've had enough of that. Just tell me the truth. I know that one of us is leaving here feeling sore about our losses, don't make me wish any more than I already do that it will be you." 

He sighs, and what right does he have? This is his fault, is it not? Still, she remains silent in her seething, awaiting a proper answer. Like many other things she's wished from this man, she suspects she will not get it. "I loved you. I've never lied to you about that, and I've never lain with you under false pretenses --" 

"Ah," she intervenes, scornfully, though she never intended this to devolve into a petty lover's quarrel; it seems inevitable now. "I'd forgotten you'd given me your true name before you put your hands on me, silly me. Getting this upset over a misunderstanding!" 

"Solas _is_ my true name and I've given you more of _him_ than any other." 

"I'm sure." 

"If nothing else, you must believe that my heart -- whatever is left of it -- has always been yours." 

 "I don't," she tells him, fire in her eyes, "I _can't._  Not if we're going to be on different sides of this war you're trying to start." 

"The People are worth saving, if you could only understand -- "

"The People, or _people_ you deem worthy? There are a lot of different kinds of people in this world, Solas, you can't simply cherrypick! What of the human and dwarven children, then? The non-magical elves? The humans you _stood_ and _fought_ with?"

His expression contorts into something much, much uglier than she's seen of him. The fact that it doesn't make her love him any less is the real tragedy. "It's regrettable, but I will shoulder the losses as I have done before." 

Dia blinks. A concession of sorts. So easily? Despite her desperate attempts to quash them in their wake, the tears come. And they flow, and they destroy the valiant and unafraid image she's been trying to maintain -- so quickly, so effectively. Ruined. "And what of me? What sort of life is there for me in your _ideal_ world?" 

He stares. The desperately romantic part of her wants to believe it's because he's never seen her cry before, not even when he trampled all over her heart just to spit on it once more. The realist in her knows that she's drawing the guilt out of him slowly by a string. It will never be enough to change his stubborn mind, but maybe, it'll be enough to reignite the wildfire in her chest. When the man she once loved exhales shakily but repeats, " _I will shoulder the cost_ ," this is the moment she knows with absolute certainty that she's lost him for good, and it's all over. 

Fitting, isn't it, that the mark chooses this moment of desperation in particular to flare up once more. It strikes lightning along the length of her arm, causing her to fall to her knees, letting out a sharp wail. He's at her side, but not quickly enough. Her good arm has reached for her sword and with clenched teeth, and through a sharp cry from her former lover, she cuts through the flesh and bone of her being in one sharp swing.

With a scream and a rush of blood from her, he puts her back together for the final time. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend. It's just that since I've woken, I haven't met any other..." At the pinched expression that crosses his face, Dia reconsiders her next words carefully. "...Mages."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost my progress halfway thru n I hate everything <3
> 
> I will say that Dia has some ~*opinions*~ about mages that are not very woke bae of her, but Solas *is* kind of an asshole once he figures out ur Dalish,,, like I love both my problematic children

When they first meet, she's a much softer version of herself. Polite, almost to a fault. Cassandra's been won over long before they even make it to the first rift... but only because Dia's smart enough to know when she's outnumbered, outmatched, and when it's time to lay her weapon down. Her time as a hunter amongst Lavellan has made her many things -- cautious being, perhaps, the most prevalent. _Dangerous_ being another. 

In the instant he touches her for the first time, he is hardly anything but a cold, hard grip around her wrist pulling electrical currents from her hand with ease. She hisses through her teeth at the onslaught of pain bursting from the cursed mark. It takes a solid few seconds for her to ascertain her surroundings once more, and naturally, he is the first thing she sees when she reopens her bleary eyes.

"Did I...?" she heaves out breathlessly. _The rift_ , she means to ask. _It's closed -- forever, right?_

Cassandra's at her side immediately, pulling her up by the shoulders. Comforting. To think, just hours before she was lying in a dirty prison cell, awaiting her probable death at this woman's word... maybe even hand.  "Relax," she tells Dia curtly, and yet not unkindly. "Take a moment to breathe. I cannot imagine that was easy for you." 

"That was _magic_." 

"Of a sort," the man with the chronically cold hands replies, and she meets his sharp gaze tiredly. "You are no mage, if that is something you're concerned about.. Even a force as powerful as this ' _breach_ ' is not necessarily enough to draw magic from an unviable source. You need not worry." 

She nods numbly. In retrospect, perhaps she should've paid more attention to his choice of words in these monumental days to pass. But she is young, and wide-eyed, and he's full of wonder and perfectly scripted answers to all of her questions. He _saved_ her life, once, didn't he? It's enough to blind her, for a time. "Right, I..." 

Varric, on the other hand, is a welcome distraction; always. 

"Is that a Free Marcher accent, I detect?" 

"Um," she replies, "I'm...from the Free Marches, yes. Wycome, mostly -- my, ah, clan doesn't travel often. No need. Trade with humans is amicable enough." 

"You are Dalish," intercedes Cassandra calmly, a contemplative look upon her face.

Dia blinks, flushing a little under the attention. "Did...my vallasl-- _blood writing_ not give it away? We aren't typically hard to spot." It draws a nervous, bubbling laugh from her. 

She wishes she would've paid just a little more attention to the stiffening of her supposed savior's shoulders at every remark, every question. What his eyes had looked like, scanning Falon'Din's vallaslin proudly etched in violet ink upon her heavily freckled face. She thinks, then, at least she might've caught on sooner. But hindsight, of course, is a complete and utter _bitch._

"You've wandered far from your clan," he lilts, and her eyes flicker to him as soon as his voice reaches her. It will become something of a habit in the way needling fire once you've been taught not to play with it does. 

"The Conclave concerned my people," she answers stiffly, not particularly liking the underlying condescension in his words. "As it has much of the world. I seem to recall seeing representatives from every end of Thedas in attendance. Besides... our clan has mages to think of, to protect. Isn't it natural for us to be wary?" 

His eyes narrow, and this time, she doesn't miss it. 

Dia turns her gaze to Cassandra, feeling irate. "Is this another interrogation?" 

The woman almost blanches at the accusation. "I have promised you to try and secure you a trial once the immediate threat has passed... nothing less. Though, I would imagine knowing your motives for being at the Conclave can only help your case, we simply have no time to waste mulling about _chatting_." 

"Time to pack up, then, Seeker?" smirks Varric. 

Dia drowns out their resulting quarrel, opting to pace herself somewhere at their backs with Solas. As she observes the staff trapped to his back, the wraps on his feet, he reminds her tentatively of the First back home. It's obvious that he isn't Circle trained. No, he's far too aloof and unrestrained in his casting for that. Not enough self-righteous anger, or self pity, in the way he holds himself either. It's with a curious glint in her eye that she finds herself asking, "You are not a Circle mage?"

She knows the answer already, of course, but the sheer vexation that overtakes his normally composed expression is something of a surprise. "No." 

"And you are not Dalish," presses Dia. 

"I am not." 

"But you don't seem city born." 

"Because _I am not,_ " he repeats, an almost-edge to his tone. 

She hums thoughtfully, recalling tales of witches holing themselves in huts deep in the wilds in absolute solitude. Those always seemed like farfetched fairytales, meant to scare the little ones into not running off into the wilderness -- _especially_ at nightfall. Now, faced with her very own wayward apostate, she has to wonder about the truth of it all. "You're well educated for an apostate," she prods. 

"You're exactly as tenacious as I'd expect from a Dalish child." 

"... _Child_?" she almost laughs, but when she catches the severe look upon his face, she pauses.  "...I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to... offend. It's just that since I've woken, I haven't met any other..." At the pinched expression that crosses his face, Dia reconsiders her next words carefully. "...Mages." 

"I don't imagine you've met many at all," he remarks as if it's an insult. 

"Well, counting the Keeper and the First...and the _Second_..." 

At her light tone, he seems to grasp the idea of a 'joke', finally.  _A small miracle,_ she thinks, mouth twisting. He doesn't quite smile, but he also doesn't quite look like he wants to tear her head off any longer, so. "A respectable amount," he offers dryly. 

"Do you think so?" she muses. "I was thinking I could do with another. Really broaden my horizons, and all, since the sky is falling apart as we speak." This draws a shadow of a smile, or something like it, from him. "Besides, your trick back at that...rift...was useful. If you have any other theories about this," she says, lifting her palm, the horrible scar shifting hues and humming with energy. "I suppose I'd be a fool not to listen." 

His eyes almost soften. "I've promised Seeker Cassandra my help for as long as it's needed, so I will stay and offer my aforementioned _theories_ where necessary." 

It's the kind of promise riddled with a hundred different loopholes. And yet, years later, all Dia can hear echoing in the back of her mind is ' _I will stay._ ' 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Lavellan will always be her family, Dia knows this, but sometimes your family just doesn't know what's best for you.

_"She isn't suited for the blade."_

Sweat dripping from the brow, anger and frustration fueling her exhausted body. Late night runs through the forest, despite Deshanna's constant protesting. Y _ou're too young, too small, too weak --_ in not so few, and not so aggressive words. The meaning remained clear, however. It only made her work that much harder, to get that much _stronger_. 

_"She's much too slight... She'd be better suited to teaching the da'len, or tending the halla."_

Training with Mihren. Mihren, the _strong_. Mihren, the _brave_. Mihren, the brother in all but blood who never stopped believing in her, despite the rest of the clan brushing off her wild imagination so easily. Mihren... and the look on his face -- pupils blown wide with shock -- the first time she knocked him off his feet. She'll never forget, she can't. 

_"You are wasting your talents, lethal'lan."_

"You're wasting your breath," she mutters into open air, drawing her sword down once more on the training dummy. As cotton pools out of its inanimate skull, she huffs humorlessly. 

_"Your hands are capable of so much more than brute strength."_

_Inar_ , her mind registers sharply, coming to a screeching halt, but her form does not break. She slashes through the dummy once more, twice more, thrice. The anger that heats her blood is an ancient one, born years and years ago. She should be over this by now that she's grown but the name still pricks at her very last nerve. Sometime in-between the rage-fueled swings, and returning to her senses, the dummy has fallen into pieces at her feet. Numbly, Dia kicks at stray cotton fluffs, lowering her weapon finally. There's an itch in the back of her throat just begging for her to scream, to shout, to say _anything._

Luckily, she isn't given the opportunity to do anything so dramatic. 

"That was quite a display." 

Heat floods her cheeks, her skin buzzes with energy. A sound she actually likes from a voice that _isn't_ in her head. She turns on the heels of her feet, loftily holding her sword behind her back, almost bashfully. "That? That was nothing," she smiles, but by the way his eyes pierce her own _she_ knows that _he_ knows _something_. He always knows more than he should, she's not surprised. For a distraction, she turns her eyes to the night sky, to the stars flickering above them. "Bit late for you, isn't it? Past your bedtime, no?" 

"I happened to catch sight of a figure headed for the training grounds just as I was preparing to sleep," Solas answers calmly. "When I realized that it was you, I decided to wait a little while to make sure you would not overexert yourself. It seems I was right to worry. It's been over an hour." 

"I don't need much sleep," remarks Dia smartly. "Unlike some people I know."

"Even so, we leave for the Hinterlands in the morning, it might be best for you to settle down sometime before the sun rises." 

"Is that a suggestion as the resident healer, or as Solas the Fade enthusiast? You  _are_ aware I don't dream like you do, correct? No exciting Fade adventures for me." 

_"If you only tried to understand, falon, then I could finally reach you. Please stop fighting me."_

A shudder draws her attention back to the present. "You know what?" she swallows, giving Solas an awkward smile. "It's... getting a bit cold. Maybe I will try to sleep. I don't need to give Cassandra another reason to chew me out." Before she can make it very far, he softly touches her arm and she nearly jumps out of her skin at the suddenness. 

"Are you alright?" he asks searchingly. His expression is as collected as ever but there's an underlying sense of... something else. "When you were training, I'd noticed you looked lost in thought. Is something on your mind, perhaps?" 

_Only everything that shouldn't matter anymore._

"That's," she means to say, ' _that's nice of you, I'm fine._ ' But what she actually blurts out is a mumbled, "My brother. I was. I was thinking about my brother." As his expression floods with understanding, and is that... _sympathy_? Her eyes go wide almost instantly with regret. "I mean, I'm _fine_. I just... He's always hated that I became a hunter. He wanted more for me but I don't think he understood that there isn't _more_ for those of us that aren't like him."

"Like him?" 

Dia tries to fight back a grimace, failing miserably. "A mage. Typically, if you aren't a mage in a Dalish clan, you're a hunter or a craftsman. Or, you clean up after halla until you die. That's it. Of course, being a mage isn't necessarily ideal either. There's always the chance that the Keeper will already have a designated First _and_ Second, and then you end up with another clan _if_ you're lucky. If you aren't..." 

His lips purse thinly. "Barbaric." He does not sound surprised. "Though, I suspect that this wasn't the case for your brother." 

"No," she huffs a laugh, far from amused. "Inar's future was determined the minute he was born. The first born-mage to Lavellan in years... Of course, it gave him an inflated ego. When I joined the hunt, he couldn't help himself from making comments about how my _brute strength_  could only serve me for so long." 

"For what it's worth," Solas says, lowering his head. "I believe many now would consider your strength serving you, and many others, well enough." 

"More like the mark is." 

"A lesser person wielding it could prove disastrous."  

They stay like that for awhile, in quiet reverence of the night sky and their own thoughts. 

"A lesser person, huh," she raises a brow, and he gives her a mystifying grin in return. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't dreaming. This is... 
> 
> ...the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set mid-Haven probably when they've got like 25% of their shit together but are also collectively losing their minds

_"You're afraid, but this is you. You can change anything. Just try."_

Her head aches terribly. Not real, not real, not real. 

_"Try harder."_

_"_ Leave me alone," she grits out, terrified of the way her voice echoes in such a way that she just knows she _isn't_ awake. "I hate this. I _hate_ this." 

This isn't dreaming. This is... 

" _The mark,"_ the voice tells her solemnly. _"It's connected to the veil and it's connected to you. The bridge that seemed impossible before has fallen at your feet. You don't have to fear it, I can help."_

...the Fade. 

Her knowledge of the Fade is limited. Demons, magic, lucidness in dreaming, _demons_. Really, isn't that all one needs to know? 

"I'm not interested in help from a demon," she growls, running a hand over her face in vexation. She startles a bit at how _real_ the flesh of her hand feels, even going so far as to hold her palm away from her face and stare at it for a good few seconds. Blinking, a sinking feeling in her gut, Dia lets out a low sounding whimper and begins reciting a half-blasphemous prayer her mother had tried to teach her to use in place of foul language. It works -- until inevitably a ' _fuck_ ' slips through when the world around her begins to shift into a painfully familiar sight. 

" _You thought of home. Is this your home? Will you tell me about it?_ " 

"No!" she blurts out shakily. "No, _no_." 

Even the comforting sight of aravels covering large amounts of ground is not enough. There is no one, and the dreamy-fog ridden state of the air has not dissipated. This is _not_ real. This is _not_ her home, and she does not want to be left in this hellish place with only a demon for company. 

_"There is another near... This one is not afraid. If it is company you seek, perhaps open your mind to the possibility of meeting with this fearless one."_

Unresponsive, Dia's eyes skim the hastily put together campsite, still dumbstruck. _Fearless one_...? She blanches, her mind immediately drumming up the image of the only other Fade walker she knows. One that thrills in it, even. The sick bastard. What part of _this_ is fun? Almost as if someone's called her name, or burned a hole in the back of her head with their eyes, she turns instinctively at the inexplicable feeling of being noticed. 

He says nothing, simply stares. 

 _Don't be a demon_ , she thinks almost pleadingly. "Well, this place isn't nearly as fun as you make it out to be." 

"You..." he seems at a loss for words entirely, which is... unusual for him. "How...? You aren't a ma..." She lifts up her left hand silently, sparks igniting at the gesture. "I see. I wasn't... I'd never even considered the idea of the magic in the mark being this thorough." His eyebrows furrow, his stormy eyes growing darker with thoughtfulness. Concern, maybe. 

"How do I wake up?" 

"What?" 

"I want to leave," she presses. "Honestly, I may never sleep again if this is what I have to look forward to. Either that, or the hand goes." 

"The mark is essential in closing the breach." 

"So is my sanity, I assume, which will dwindle to _nothing_ if I don't escape this demon infested cesspool anytime soon." 

" _Cesspool_ ," he looks properly offended, she doesn't care. His nose scrunches up, indignant, and she briefly revels in the sight of his composure breaking -- even if only for a moment. "You can awaken whenever you wish, but I'd just as soon predict that this is not a one time occurrence. If the mark has effected you deeply enough to grant you access to the Fade --" 

"Then it comes off." 

"You are being melodramatic. As usual." 

"And _you_ aren't even trying to understand my position," counters Dia, a bit frantically, voice raising in pitch. His disgruntled expression smooths itself out ever so slightly at her clear distress. "Just because you find the Fade fascinating and wondrous does not mean the rest of the world shares your opinion -- I, for one, _am scared shitless and would like to leave. Now_." 

"You seem to be under the impression that you're in danger," Solas remarks almost softly. "You are not." 

"So the voices keep saying! Do you know it's not _normal_ to hear sentient voices when you're sleeping?" 

"Lethal'lan, you are in no danger here. If you wish it, I will teach you to carefully guard yourself in such instances, as they seem unavoidable now."

 _Lethal'lan,_ her mind registers half-amusedly, half-irritatedly. It would seem nicer of a sentiment if she wasn't completely filled with the urge to deck him in the jaw, but you know, it's _something_. "I want to wake up," she repeats. 

"That will solve nothing," his tone becomes sharp, a warning. "Even if you attempt to avoid sleeping, it will catch up to you eventually, and traversing the Fade in an exhausted state of mind is not something you will want to experience. It will only make you that much more vulnerable."

_"This one speaks the truth. Open your mind. Listen."_

"I _hate_ this." 

"Naturally," Solas clears his throat. "You fear what you do not yet understand. I have offered to teach you so that fear becomes knowledge." 

 _"Or wisdom_ ," the voice echoes, sounding entirely amused.  

"Or wisdom," mimics Solas, smiling a bit. 

Dia presses a thumb to her nose, annoyed. "I'm glad you've made quick friends. That's fantastic. Really." 

_"Quick friends? There is nothing quick here."_

"Old friends is more apt." 

"I don't _care,_ " she breathes out, exasperated. "I just..." It becomes clear, then, that most of her choices have been taken from her the minute the guards had found her beneath the rift. Her hand? Belongs to a heretical organization -- by human standards. Her voice? Also belongs to that organization. Now, it seems, even her sleep has been stolen from right under her nose. Amazing. "Just _teach_ me," she seethes. "Please." 

And he does. 

( and years later, her sleep is never quite the same again, voices haunting her every move, but none louder than his own -- ' _ir abelas, vhenan.' )_

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me trying to imagine the Fade kiss w/ Dia who vehemently despises the Fade* 
> 
> mmm, good shit


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ anywhere i go, there you are ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JXse0e-EzkI)
> 
> Obligatory fade kiss chapter????

_Haven_ , she thinks, breathing in the brisk mountain air whilst marveling at the startling lack of suffocating ash and...death. It might look beautiful, if she hadn't seen it laid to complete waste just days ago by an egomaniacal Magister intent on tearing the world -- and her -- apart. 

"Why here?" asks Dia, turning slightly. Solas hovers behind her quietly with his hands clasped behind his back. She wonders just when his presence became familiar enough to be bordering on _comforting,_ even. When, not _why_. She knows exactly why. 

"Why not?" he lilts, and she can hear the crunching of soft snow under his feet as he draws near. 

"We all could've died here." 

"And yet." 

Now, she fully turns, gazing up at him with narrowed eyes. His expression gives her nothing to work with, as usual. "Really, _why_?" 

Solas hums a little contemplatively before tilting his head in the direction of the Chantry. She follows. 

* * *

 

"Ugh," she scrunches her nose up indelicately, "How is it that even the stench is accurate?" 

"A mere reflection of your fond memory, at a guess." 

"Great, fond, _right._ Can I remember not being in the dungeons now?" 

He almost smiles. Dia feels her heart leap into her throat at the thought, firmly pressing her lips shut in fear of saying something she really, really shouldn't. "This is where we met, well, I suppose you wouldn't recall much of it. I sat by your side for days, assessing the mark." 

"Embarrassing," she remarks, trying not to flush. "I'm a sleep talker." 

"I know." 

" _Great_ ," she repeats, now full-on crimson cheeked. "I'm sure Cassandra appreciated all the reports you gave of my mindless gibberish." 

"I don't know," Solas smirks. "I don't recall it being any more meaningless than your usual speech." 

"Wow." But she's laughing, and for the first time in days she doesn't feel the part of the half-alive, half-baked martyr sacrificial pawn. "I feel as though I should be insulted, but you did save my life--so, I'll let it slide. This instance only." 

"How magnanimous of you."

"Truly." 

He draws closer, almost imperceptibly, but she's become so blatantly _aware_ of him in recent that it's impossible for her to miss. The heat crawls back up her neck, up her jawline, and back to her freckled cheeks. His eyes, always so alert, are softened and for once -- _she loves this place_ \-- for how it makes him at ease, for how it has brought them together. When he speaks next, his voice is lowered, as thought the threat of being overheard is entirely real. "Cassandra almost had me executed for producing so little results. You slept for days, and there was seemingly no end to it." 

"That's something we have in common," Dia replies, raising a brow. "Almost being executed, I mean." 

"Indeed," he chuckles lightly before growing serious once more. "I almost left." 

Her heart sinks at just the thought. It's sort of pathetic. 

"I'm glad I did not," he finishes, and suddenly she understands why the thought of his departure saddens her so desperately. "You asked, ' _why here_?'. There is your answer. It could not be anywhere else." 

She's absolutely infatuated. 

* * *

 His hand on hers, a phantom feeling, a barely there memory. 

(the breach seems so far away here, where the only threat is her own mouth turning against her.)  

And he's going on something of a tangent, trying to make his words seem less than they are, and she isn't buying it. Dia's half-listening, entirely too wrapped up in the word 'feeling' being applied to him, to her, to this strange and terrifying new world she's woken up to. 

"Who's being melodramatic now?" she asks with a wry smile. 

"It's a figure of speech." 

"Yes. A very dramatic one. Felt the entire world change, huh?" 

"Would you rather I lie and tell you that you've changed nothing at all?" 

"No. I didn't say I minded it. You're being dramatic again-- defensive."

"And you're being difficult."

"What's new?" she smiles with teeth, and he blinks down at her sudden proximity. "I'm glad you didn't leave either," she tells him, glancing down briefly at her hands, twisted before her, aching to intertwine with his. And yet. "I don't know if I could do any of this without you, Solas." 

Silence. 

When she glances up, she finds his grey eyes have widened considerably. Her hands twitch at the tightening of his jaw, she wants to run her fingers along the sharp edges and feel his breathing as though it's her own. _Baby steps_ , she tells herself inwardly. He's still frozen -- and she makes her move, because if she cannot even take these steps in the world of dreams, then where? 

( it could not be anywhere else.) 

In her haste, she knocks their noses together and winces, pulling away. Her intent, however, remains perfectly (humiliatingly) clear. 

"I'm _so_ sorr--" 

She barely catches the barest shake of his head, as though he's warning himself -- but then his hand cups her cheek, and his mouth is hot on hers in the span of seconds. His other arm snakes around her waist, pulling her in. She goes willingly, throwing her own arms around his neck, and giggling breathlessly against his lips. He pulls away slightly to catch his breath, panting slightly, and she pecks his chin--his nose--his jaw, whatever she can reach. Eventually, their lips meet again and it's just as sweet as the first. 

"This," he breathes out, heavily. "Not...Not even here." 

When he pulls away, she tries to follow. "What..?" 

"This isn't -- " His eyes look wide, frantic. "This isn't right, not even here." 

"Solas--" 

She watches him go, helplessly, and wakes with a bittersweet taste lingering her mouth. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lil head shake Solas does when Lavellan turns away embarrassed and his entire body language in that scene when he pulls her back in is like ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this wasn't gonna be chronological but let's say this happened after Fade kiss (obviously) but before Solas had his time to think things over, basically the only important thing to note is that it's Post-Haven and takes place at Skyhold

There's a reason Dia tried so desperately to keep her past separated from her present. A very good one, in fact... 

...One that stands at 6 foot 4, with a complexion much paler than even her own and dusky (traitorous, infuriating--why here, why _now_ ) grey eyes. 

"Inquisitor," Mihren greets, standing taller than she'd seen him last, but with none of the shame or guilt. He has the nerve to fix her with an assured, bordering mocking grin-- crooked, the kind he used to deploy when trying to get out of trouble with the elders. He's got a new scar at the corner of his left cheek and she stares at the new addition while trying to swallow the anger gathering like fire in her lungs. 

"Inquisitor?" Josephine appears nervously at her side, parchment clutched between her fingers. As she passes it to her, Dia barely spares it a glance, her eyes too distracted by the literal phantom of her past that simply appeared out of nowhere. "This young man claims to have travelled on behalf of your clan --" 

Dia unfolds the parchment indelicately, skimming the first few lines and then for the signature she expects to find at the bottom. When her eyes lift once more, Josephine looks approximately two minutes away from a conniption, and Mihren still has that foolish grin on his face. "Inar doesn't trust me," she says flatly, crumpling the ill-begotten letter in her fist. Passerby watch the exchange with eager eyes, whispering behind their hands. She's sure it's quite a sight to behold, but from where she stands, Dia isn't quite so amused. 

"That's not so, lethal'lan," Mihren's grin becomes a slight, crooked sort of smile. The mirth in his eyes dissipates once the realization of her deduction sweeps over him as well. "This is merely a precaution." 

"A precaution," she clenches her fist, feeling the paper crumple further, digging into her skin. "Because he doesn't trust me. And what of the Keeper, then?" she demands, nose flaring. "She's the one who sent me to the Conclave after all, what does she have to say about this _intrusion_?" 

"I thought you'd be glad to see a familiar face." 

Her eyes flicker to the scar upon his cheek. "Evasive as ever." But she knows what it means. Deshanna must not be expecting to make it much longer if she's letting Inar call the shots. It would sadden her more if she weren't so irritated. With the knowledge that she isn't going to be drawing any information from him in a crowded hall, she turns to Josephine with a weary expression."I'll be taking this idiot to see a healer about his face. See if there are any tents with vacancies, he _won't_ be staying long." 

The diplomat anxiously glances between the two obviously quarreling elves and nods once. "Of course, Inquisitor. If there is anything else, you might find me at your earliest convenience." This is served delightfully with one loaded, meaningful look. 

Dia knows that look. In other words, _we will be having words about this later, whether you like it or not._ It's only because she loves Josie like a sister that she complies with a sheepish, "Thank you. Yes. I will, of course," before dragging her pseudo-brother by the arm and towards the Healer's quarters. He makes a vague noise of discontent to which she rolls her eyes miserably. "I suppose I should be glad it was you and not Inar himself," she regretfully admits. 

"Yes, you should," Mihren says seriously, and she glances to find his expression much milder. "That brother of yours is very antsy about this Herald business." 

"That wasn't my choice." 

"Obviously, I can think of no one less virtuous than you. No offense." 

"Some taken," she pauses, steering them to a more private enclosure, away from curious eyes. "Your face? Did you just fancy a new scar to lie to shemlen women about, or? Because I have to say -- it's kind of a gaudy look, even for you."  

A pause, and then, "There's been some unrest in Wycome as of late." 

Ah. A motive. 

"Is that--" 

"Not now, lethal'lan," chides Mihren kindly. "You promised me a healer, did you not?"

"They won't be able to get rid of it completely," she warns, knowing very well of his ridiculous vanity issues. "But at the least we can make sure it doesn't get infected." 

"Your hospitality is unmatched, truly, dear _Falon'Dia_ \--" 

"Call me that here, and I will give you a _variety_ of new scars to worry about, _taren'din_." 

* * *

 She means to keep him from interacting with the others, she does. But like _everything else_ as of recent, this plan fails miserably.

Mihren is too nosy for his own good, and the others are just as curious about him. She catches him sparring with Blackwall one morning, and discussing battle strategy with Cullen the next. He seems particularly fond of Cassandra which is mildly concerning considering his track record of endangering himself and others with his many entanglements -- but that is not even the _worst_ , no, far from it...  The moment she catches him sidling his way towards Solas' study, she feels fear creep up her spine in equal parts to the terror forming in her gut. 

_No._

She's certain she looks quite the fool, breaking into a brisk sprint for seemingly no reason, but there is a reason. And that reason is her sanity, and the hopes that it will remain firmly (kind of) intact. 

Dia catches him by the elbow just before he makes it through the door and he offers her a quirked brow in response. "You aren't allowed in there," she tells him, careful to keep her tone even, lest she entice him with her blatant anxiety. She presses her back against it, instinctively, anything to keep him out and away. 

"Why is that?" 

"It's a place of study," Dia scowls. "It's no place for someone like you. You're too noisy. You'd be an unwelcome distraction." 

"I _am_ capable of behaving myself, believe it or not." 

" _Or not_ ," she decides quickly, attempting to divert his attention towards quite literally _anything else_. "You haven't seen the gardens, have you? Or -- you've not met Varric, right? He's a writer. I know you don't read, but he's got some very interesting stories about the Champion -- you like hearing about Hawke, don't you? So let's -- "

The door creaks open and Dia's knocked cleanly out of the way with her clanmate tumbling after her, for her grip tightens menacingly around his arm at the disturbance. 

_Please be Dorian Please be Dorian Please be Dorian PLEASE !_

Stormy blue-grey eyes peer down at her crumpled form curiously, inquiring. 

It's not Dorian. 

"Why were you pressed against the door?" asks Solas calmly, making no attempt to help her up or out of this situation. Of course. 

"Ah, an elusive scholar appears!" Mihren's smirk is too wide to be blissfully ignorant, and this is when Dia realizes she's made a serious miss-step. _He knows_ , she thinks grimly, he already knows and she's going to tear whoever informed him of it a new one. Solas regards him with a cool sort of detachment, giving her a brief glance that tells her nothing, before his eyes are scanning the other man once more. "I'm Mihren of Clan Lavellan," he greets cheerfully. 

Wearing a particularly guarded expression, the other elf replies simply, "I am Solas."

And Dia silently wishes for death. 

* * *

She's not sure what she expected.

Maybe her own rocky meeting with Solas had her leaning one way, but somehow, the fact that they get along at once is INCREASINGLY disconcerting.  

They should have _nothing_ to talk about; _no common ground_. 

Mihren is a warrior, through and through. Preferring brawn to brains, etcetera. Solas has made no secret that his pursuits lie firmly in knowledge and wisdom and the Fade exclusively. (And _her_ , sometimes, when he sees fit.) See? _Nothing_... 

Nothing, that is-- at the risk of sounding incredibly narcissistic, bordering paranoid-- except for _her_. 

"If you tell him my birth given name, I'll end you myself," she warns Mihren, who merely grins down at her with such an expression that plainly states he's more than used to her common threats. 

"But it's such a beautiful name, lethal'lan," he snorts in his laughter, her glare intensifies. "Who wouldn't want to be named after Death itself?" 

"That is _not_ the problem here." 

"Ah, you fear it's too delicate of a name, perhaps? You much prefer being revered as the mysterious Herald -- _Dia_ of Unknown Dalish beginnings-- is that it?" 

"Just keep your mouth shut, unless you feel like adding to the haggard warrior look you've got these days." 

At this, he bristles. It's a pleasing sight, she must admit, after almost a week of him blindsiding her completely for his own amusement. "I happen to be extremely handsome, regardless of how many injuries I sustain!" 

"Did your mamae tell you that?" 

"You wouldn't understand," he offers briskly, and yet, the mirth in his expression returns full force. She doesn't like it. "Your type is neat and scholarly--and vaguely hobo-chic, is that right?" 

"And your type? Warrior women ten leagues beyond you, _is that right_?" she snipes, inwardly hating that it's genuinely in good humor. Inevitably... it always is with Mihren. 

He elbows her lightly. "You can hardly blame me. Anyway, I think he's good for you." His tone takes an unexpectedly serious turn. 

Dia regards him warily. "...Excuse me?"

"The scholar-- you know, the hairless one with the pinched expression? We haven't spoken much beyond...well, you, but he's alright, I suppose. Better than what you'd find waiting back in Wycome." 

"That's...not fair. There are plenty of good men in our clan."

"And they're all either bonded or ancient," chuckles Mihren. 

She thinks back, and considers his opinion not _entirely_ false and exaggerated. "Dalish boys mature slow." 

"Ouch."  
  
"I've got evidence standing right beside me," she adds, just because she can. 

"I won't bother arguing with you. I don't particularly mess around with them either, for similar reasons." 

"You were meant to be included in the generalization, of course." 

"I know. I chose not to acknowledge your crassness. Of course." 

And she laughs, feeling much lighter than she has in a long while. While seeing a familiar face might not have been as much of a treat to her as he'd been anticipating, she can no longer deny that his presence-- while slightly irritating-- has lifted her spirits considerably. Which begs the question... "You're leaving soon, are you not?" 

He tenses. 

"You mentioned unrest in Wycome. You didn't want to talk about it before. Is it so bad?" 

Exhaling, Mihren dawns a grim expression; one she hasn't seen on him in years, not since their fathers both left on a hunt only to never return. 

 

* * *

 

_"We do not have the resources available to lend armed forces... and to deploy a small scouting group with the Inquisitor herself? We haven't the luxury of time. I'm... sorry, truly."_

 

* * *

 

 

"Of all the stupidly dangerous things you've done, this has to be high up there," it's a reprimand, but Mihren's familiar laughter lessens the severity of it. 

"Is she always doing such inadvisable things?" Dorian inquires from his perch upon his horse. "I was beginning to wonder myself." 

"Shut up," she tells them, eyebrows furrowed, and though their words echo in the back of her mind. _We haven't the luxury of time_.... Inadvisable things, indeed...Her eyes are focused on the path before her, finally... back to the lush green forests of Wycome. But, somehow, this feels less like a homecoming and more like a funeral march. "Leliana is _actually_ going to murder me for this little excursion, you know? I'd thank you to at least wait until I'm on the pyre to bitch about my bad decisions." 

Solas hums from her side, and she fixes him with a strange look. "She cannot kill you now that she's made you a figurehead." 

"That's...comforting. I guess." 

"At best, we'll all be treated to new accommodations in the dungeons upon our return." 

Dorian makes a throaty noise of discontent. "Might we turn back? I fear I won't survive the prisoner life, dear Inquisitor. Think of my hair -- nay, think of the _stench_." 

"Bit late for that," Dia almost smiles. "Best case scenario is that we accomplish our task, save my clan, and Leliana will be too dumbstruck to actually do anything about it." 

"Sounds like a fairytale. Is this how you sleep at night with the knowledge of all your ridiculous ploys?" 

"Yes." 

"She's been acting recklessly since we were children," Mihren pipes in, quite unhelpfully, in Dia's humble opinion. 

"And that's _not_ comforting," the Tevinter altus clucks his tongue. 

"Hey, I'm alive. That's something. No one was ever seriously harmed or killed." 

"Don't listen to her. She's hiding the scar from one particular instance on her lower back. We'd snuck into the forest to practice our swordplay and happened to stumble upon a small pack of wolves." 

Dia purses her lips. "I repeat: I'm _alive_." 

"Only because the Creators were watching over you that night," Mihren chuckles, " _And_  because I got lucky with my swings." 

"It had nothing to do with the Creators," she sniffs, "We make our own luck. We survived because I was savvy enough to hear them coming down the path, and you were just big and dumb enough to scare them away-- well, mostly. One of them did catch me. But, I'm alive to tell the tale." 

"Truly inspirational," comes the dry reply from Dorian, of course. "Luckily we are not in a heavily forested area that could be crawling with feral creatures -- oh. Wait." 

"Yeah, okay. But _two_ of us have _actual_ not wooden swords now, so don't worry your pretty little head. We'll be fine." 

"And two of us have magic," Mihren adds. 

"Oh, that too." 

* * *

 she smells the blood before she sees it. 

* * *

"They're gone," she says numbly, staring at the burning aravels and deserted camp. More than a few bodies lay strewn about, hence the _blood_ , but she's far too distraught and stricken to check for faces she can recognize. She does not want to look among these faces and find Inar, or Deshanna, or her mother... There are no children, at least, from what she can bother to tell. Mihren is at her side, wearing a distinctly grim expression, putting a hand to her shoulder. 

"We will find them, lethal'lan." 

"We have to bury them," says a voice that sounds much like her own. Is it her? It's hard to tell. "They--They deserve their final rites. But I--I don't know how to do them." 

"Neither do I. Come, Dia," his arms encase her completely, steering her away from the massacre, and she can't bring herself to meet Dorian or Solas' eyes. Not when she's like this; surrounded by her People and death. Torn, confused, and utterly broken. Would this have happened if she'd never left for the Conclave...? If Mihren had never come chasing after her for help...? "We've a few hours before sunrise, I'd say. We should search the perimeter for survivors or..." 

"The enemies," she finishes, finding her voice. It comes out throaty and brutal-- the pure anger finally seeping through. 

Dorian's clear voice echoes solemnly. "Bandits, weren't they?" 

"Bandits don't raze entire Dalish clans without a cause," she retorts, nearly spitting in her fury. "There was something else you mentioned, Mihren." 

"The Duke," Mihren sounds defeated, and Dia understands at once. "He's been... unaccommodating, to say the least. But it's not possible..." 

Clan Lavellan had never had issue among the shemlen before. _Why now_? 

A new figurehead in Wycome who wasn't fond of their presence. It makes sense. It burns her blood. 

"He dies," she decides at once, sparing the burning wreckage and bodies one last mournful glance. Turning, somebody grabs her by the elbow, and she pulls away harshly until finding stormy grey eyes peering at her with such a sorrowful look to them it halts her movements altogether. " _Don't_ stop me," Dia tells him, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I have to do this." 

"You are acting irrationally," he says softly. "We should first make sense of the situation."

"I already know all I need to!" 

"No, you want to believe you do because if you can understand the _why_ , then the reality becomes much less frightening." Solas' jaw tenses, and she tries to fight back the tears gathering in her eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Lethal'lan," and it's the first time he's regarded her with any Elven endearment, so she freezes instinctively. It's not the one she wanted, but it is more than she ever let herself expect. "Please," he tries once more. "I know what it is to endure such loss, but you must remain clearheaded and not rush into danger. If not for your own sake then perhaps for the possible survivors." 

Uncomfortable silence. 

"... Why are you always right?" she grumbles, wiping at her eyes. "Fine. We'll search the perimeter first -- but only because my People deserve their final rites, and we were both too restless as children to bother learning how." 

"And because there must be those who yet live," Mihren adds quietly, "This is not the entirety of Lavellan. Not nearly." 

"Don't get your hopes up," she warns tonelessly. 

"Don't let yours be dashed entirely, falon." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taren'din -- stupid, basically. ref used -- > [ here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12076398/chapters/27360708%20)
> 
> anyway, obligatory embarrassing relative chapter i guess?? it's mentioned briefly, but Mihren was the one in Lavellan to train Dia, when everyone else was yelling @ her to get her shit together and play Halla herder or smth, he's supportive but also REALLY likes giving her a hard time. (Inar is mentioned too, and just a refresher; he's her actual by-blood brother, who is a mage & probably a jerk, except we've only seen him from her POV and Dia is kinda----------shortsighted. l o l. ) 
> 
> & yes....... my character was literally named Falon'Dia and I feel like the worst kind of nerd for it please don't come for me I feel bad enough knowing canonically Solas would hate her on principle


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tentative continuation of last chapter ft. Leliana being scary and Solas being smooth af.

* * *

 

"Where is the Inquisitor?" 

"Um...It would seem the Herald took a small scouting group and headed out of the gates sometime late in the evening, Spymaster." 

"And no one thought to _stop_ them? The _guards_ , perhaps?" 

"They were all knocked out, milady. Magic, by the looks of it. Not one of them injured." 

" _Hmph_... "

* * *

 

Somewhere in the deep woods of Wycome, Inquisitor Dia Lavellan shudders. She can imagine Leliana's cornflower blue eyes narrowing in malevolence perfectly. So perfectly that even several hundred miles away the mere _thought_ is still enough to chill her to the bone. Somehow, the quickly warming air of the dawn breaking is not enough to warm her. However, it seems she's not alone in her worries because it isn't long until Dorian pulls up beside her on his own horse with a pensive look upon his face. 

"I'm too pretty to die," he tells her seriously. "If this business ends with your Spymaster's knife in my throat--" 

"She wouldn't go for the throat," replies Dia with equal solemness. "That'd be too quick. Messy." 

"Well, isn't that _lovely_." 

"Cheer up, Dorian. At least we've had our fun; think of the memories." 

"Oh, yes. That business at Haven? Simply marvelous -- I can _still_ smell the ash in my hair, you know, _from the fire breathing dragon_. And the blood stains on my boots? What a charming souvenir!" 

If there's anyone she can count on to be more dramatic than even herself... 

Dia smiles weakly, the events of the night still weighing heavily on her enough to dampen her amusement. "Not going to complain about the snow?" 

"Too easy," he snipes, though his expression smooths out ever so slightly. "There's much left to be desired in the South... at least the cold isn't quite so biting _here_." 

"Sleeves might help with that. Just a thought."

"And deprive you all a wondrous view of the supple skin of my broad shoulders? Perish the thought, my dear. I'm homesick, not _cruel_." 

 Mihren's voice pipes in from the back, "He _does_ have nice shoulders." _Unhelpful._

"Don't encourage him," she warns half-heartedly, turning her eyes forward, towards the trees slowly giving way to the rooftops peering out above them and paved cobblestone roads. "We're almost to the city," Dia announces lowly. Visceral images flicker in the back of her mind of all-encompassing fire and blood. They'd searched all throughout the night for survivors, to no avail. The forests were emptied of man and creature alike for miles upon miles-- likely because of the heavy smoke from the fires. 

Mihren had just told her to keep her faith steady, but how? 

They'd hastily buried the bodies they'd found, making empty promises to come back and give them the sending off they'd deserved. She'd muttered a prayer to Falon'Din she remembered vaguely from childhood and they were off. The only sense of relief she could bring herself to feel in the face of such devastation was that none of those faces had belonged to Inar or her mother. A small comfort, in light of things. 

Pulling to an abrupt stop, her horse heeling unhappily at the suddenness. "We're on foot from here," she says darkly.

There's a Duke to be dealt with. 

* * *

Instinct --fury, anger, _irrepressible hurt_ \-- tells her to barge in and kill every last one of the Duke's soldiers.

Common sense reminds her of the precarious situation they're in. Without the Inquisition's backing, they really are just a small group of individuals facing an entire city's worth of guards and politicians alike. Not to mention, if the Duke truly is behind the attack on Lavellan, _two_ of them bear unabashedly Dalish markings upon their faces. She trails her fingertips along the harsh lines permanently etched into her face. _Falon'Din_ , she thinks to herself coldly. _Is this the curse of one who bears his mark? For Death to follow wherever she may walk?_

"We need hoods," she tells Mihren, deftly shaking the macabre thoughts away, and turning to find him staring at her perplexedly. "Our faces," she adds quickly, "We're...very Dalish, in case you haven't looked in a mirror lately." Her eyes flicker briefly to Solas whose eyes are trained firmly on her, equally contemplative. "It might be a good idea for you, as well, Solas. We don't know how knowledgable this _Duke_ is of Dalish customs-- he might assume you are with us simply because of your ears." 

"There's another way," intervenes Mihren, looking hesitant. Dia quirks a brow questioningly and he proceeds with, "One of us could pose as a servant...?" 

"The one without vallaslin to cover, you mean?" she finishes flatly. "No. Absolutely not." The thought of Solas even pretending to feign servitude is... ironically humorous at best, appalling at worst. She won't have it. 

"Have I no say?" 

"You _want_ to do it?" 

Solas' hardened expression softens, and expectedly, the entirety of Dia's fight flees at the sight of it. She melts. "Hardly," he says lightly. "But if it is what must be done to end this and put your mind at ease, I shall." 

"You don't-- I'm not _asking_ you to do this," she tells him quickly, too quickly. Her displeasure must be written all over her face because he smiles in that cocksure way, and she is at once lost. Again. "We can find another way in..." 

"I have seen you endure much,  _Vhen’an’ara_ , and I have been powerless to stop it. Please." 

Mihren chokes, and Dia almost does too, to be perfectly honest. 

"You always have the worst timing," she informs him with feigned sourness, a timid smile pulling at the edges of her mouth, despite herself. " _Vhen’an’ara_ , is it now?" 

"So it seems." 

"This is quite adorable and all," Mihren chimes in, and Dia's shaken from her trance. "But lest you forget, there's slightly bigger problems that lie ahead of us than your relationship status... Which, good luck, by the way," he tells Solas, "I've known her my entire life and still constantly find myself at a loss for how someone so tiny can be so angry so frequently." 

"Relationship status? What exactly does this ' _Vhen’an’ara'_ mean precisely _?"_  

"Not now, Dorian." 

"Later. We _will_ be having words, Dia Lavellan!" 

"Yeah, okay," she flushes before slowly regaining a (slightly) more calm composure. "Alright then, here's the plan." But her eyes find Solas' and she feels a pleasant warmth on the back of her neck. The anger and the hurt still burn hotly in her gut, but she no longer feels helpless to it; she feels grounded. 

* * *

 "Let me see if I have this correct."

It is not a question, nor does it suggest any degree of uncertainty.

"You stormed a Duke's estate with little to no evidence of his actual involvement in the attack, slaughtered the entirety of his guard, and slipped away in the midst of the chaos that ensued... assuming your revenge was quite complete?" 

"...That's not _exactly_ how it happened. We snuck in. And there was proof!" 

"Not only that," Leliana continues, ignoring her completely. "But you also pushed aside your own duties in pursuit of your own agenda, despite the fact we--your _advisors_ \-- had made it quite clear that we simply did not possess the time or resources." 

"When we met, did I not push aside everything to help you form this Inquisition? When all I wanted was to return _home_? Did I not play the part of your Herald, despite finding it to be an _insult_ to my own _heritage_?" 

Cornflower blue eyes narrow, pink lips purse. 

Sister Nightingale is beautiful and terrifying in equal parts. And she clearly does not care for excuses. 

"Would you have me not even try to save my _family_?" 

"You did not even find any living remnants of Clan Lavellan, which is precisely what I feared, and why I would not allow you to prance across Thedas on a Fool's Errand!" 

"Leliana," Dia tries, lowering her voice. "Is there nothing you'd defy orders to protect? _No one_?"

For the first time since knowing her, Dia watches the Spymaster of the Inquisition hesitate.

* * *

"Well," Solas inquires upon her storming his study with a surely grumpy expression upon her face. She avoids his eyes, instead staring at the faint beginnings of a mural on the walls. "Are we to be relocated to the dungeons as I suspected?"

 "No," she replies dully. "But I've been assigned a babysitter." _Actually multiple_ , she suspects, if the dirty looks the scouts had been throwing at her along the way down here was any indication. She'd probably be messing up their sleep schedules for months, or until Leliana gets over herself. Whichever comes first. 

Almost as if on cue, a shadowy figure passes over them, feigning a much needed trip through the library, no doubt.

"Ah." There's a ghost of a smile touching at his lips now. "I suppose it could be worse." 

"Could it?" she muses tiredly, leaning against his desk for support. "What purpose did this little excursion serve anyway? The rest of Clan Lavellan is either dead or missing. Mihren cannot return home because _there is no home_ to return to. The Duke was responsible, but Leliana's furious for me acting...pre-emptively, and no longer trusts my judgement-- what's next?" Dia asks the ceiling, letting out a low and miserable groan. 

A lilting voice echoes from above, the library. "Don't forget the big, bad, evil, ancient Magister coming for us all!" 

"Helpful, that one," she says, glowering up at Dorian's retreating figure. She jumps a little when she feels a hand press against her shoulder comfortingly. Her eyes dart up, comically wide, meeting his. "I..." she swallows, uncertain how to proceed.

A lot of things were said, certainly. She's just not sure how many of them he truly meant. 

"Some time ago," he begins, and her mind supplies the days spent waiting without hesitation. "I asked you to offer me some time... to think. There were things to be considered. Risks." 

"I remember." 

"Do you?"

"Vividly," she replies dryly. 

"Ah." 

She feels a twist in her gut, an ache. "And these considerations? What do you make of them?" 

"I believe the risks are still... substantial. Insurmountable, even." 

"...You're probably right," Dia answers, feeling her heart sink. Here it comes; rejection. "The timing..." 

"I always have the worst," he finishes, but as she tries to turn away to hide her miserable expression, he gently sways her back facing him by the shoulder. "And yet, I find myself for the first time caring little of them." 

" _What_?"

"I remember," he tells her quietly, so it sounds like a secret. When he next speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. "...The kiss." 

"Oh," her resulting squeak is embarrassing, but matters little in the grand scheme. " _Oh_..." 

"It'd be kinder in the long run to stop this now...before..." 

"Shut up," she says, smiling up at him. "I just spent the last two hours being chastised, I really don't need another lecture." He shakes his head, again, and it reminds her so starkly of their time in the Fade that she throws herself into his arms. He seems reluctant, still, but she just wants to feel his warmth. She won't push. She knows better, knows he needs time more than anything. "Thank you. For coming, I mean. To Wycome. She pulls away to stare up at him, "I know you don't care for the Dalish, they haven't given you much reason to, I'm sure... But you came." 

He smiles, soft and kind--and she remembers.  _Vhen’an’ara._ "I've come to find that there is little I would not do to spare you any kind of hurt." 

"Is that so?" she hums, burying her face in his chest once more, missing the pained look that crosses his face. "I'm glad,  _Ara sa’lath_." 

A hand reaches up and into her hair, gentle. " _Ar lath'ma, vhen'an_." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vhen’an’ara: heart's desire, journey of the heart (?)  
> Ara sa’lath: my one heart  
> Ar lath'ma, vhen'an: I love you, my heart-- I think (?) 
> 
> Reference used:  
> \---> [ here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/8162043%20)
> 
> There's also a codex of names that I used to name Mihren & Inar which can be found --- > [ here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4401050/chapters/9994241)
> 
> in case ur nosy like me & curious about why I picked the ones I did:
> 
> Mihren; respected blade. (ayyyyyyy lmao) 
> 
> Inar; in my heart, or from within me. (this...might make more sense later. it seemed like a very sentimental type of name, and Inar is obviously the favorite child -- in Dia's eyes-- at least?)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You think you've spared my life, not letting me bleed out," she tells him numbly. "But you're killing me. Slow; like a poison."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some seriously unhealthy coping methods & brief alcohol mentions. o boy. back to post-trespasser. i told u i'm a mess, what is chronological order even? 
> 
> this also accidentally got vaguely nsfw bc i have no self-control but i don't think it's explicit enough to warrant an up in rating... yet? i shy away from this stuff cos my attempts are always cringy at best, but i will probably end up doing it at some point anyway cos the egg is my kink

* * *

 She wakes to the taste of blood and saltwater ... and the sound of her own screams. 

* * *

A knock at the door, tentative and questioning... useless, for she's been awake for hours now. Her throat is raw from the screaming, so she tumbles clumsily over, her balance forever changed by her newly missing appendage. With the one she has left, she pulls the creaking door open wide enough for the eyes on the other side to peer through. There are a few more pairs than she'd been expecting which just sets her further on edge. 

"Leave," she barks out, uncaring of the soft look her visitors fix her with. "I want to be alone." 

"Milady, we've been sent to change your banda--"

"I can do it myself." 

"... _Milady_ \--" 

" _LEAVE!_ " 

"...Yes, milady," one of them mumbles dimly, and they all scatter like frightened mice. Once, she might've, but now? She doesn't even wince. The her of years past now would be appalled at her cruel behavior. Dia Lavellan of the moment is rather over it all, as it stands. 

The next person to risk her wrath is made of much tougher stock. 

Dia swallows a gulp of hard liquor, narrowing her eyes over the glass; her face shadowed by the dark crimson strands of hair falling in awful, bloodied tangles down to her stiff jaw. "What do you want now?" 

"There is to be a formal disbandment for the Inquisition later this week," Leliana replies sharply, without even a hint of sympathy. Somehow, it's the least annoyed Dia's found herself with anyone in days. 

"Fantastic." 

"You could at least..." 

"I could at least _what_?" 

"...make yourself appear presentable." 

"Is this you speaking, or Josephine?" 

"Does it matter?" comes the flat response. "For the next three days you still represent the Inquisition as its leader."

The elf licks her dry lips, tasting only the bitterness of her past drinks--and _salt_. "Then I formally resign from my position and hand leadership to you... or Cassandra... I really don't think I care. Whoever feels most comfortable waving that ridiculous sword around for the next week--Have fun deciding!" 

"You--" the redheaded Spymaster seems to think better of her next words because she hesitates. Her blue eyes flicker to the drink in the other woman's hand, huffing a sigh. "I would like to understand what's going on in your head right now, but I do not. I cannot sit idly and watch as you drink yourself into a stupor yet again. We've only allowed it to progress _this_ far because we assumed you were in great pain--"  
  
"I _am_ in great pain." 

"--from your injury."

"Also, not an injury. This was a choice that had to be made," she swirls the glass a little, her whiskey eyes null of emotion, yet transfixed by the darkly pigmented liquid. "It should've been made a long time ago, in fact." 

"Inquisi-- _Lavellan_ ," Leliana mends, a particularly vitriolic expression overtaking her fair features. Dia quirks a brow, almost smiles; yet, not quite managing. The Spymaster stomps her way over, sharp heels clacking against the cold tile harshly, and swipes the glass right out of her hand. Dia watches in morbid amusement as she launches it at the wall and the glass shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. " _Enough_." 

Dia turns her eyes to the seething woman, some foreign, far off emotion wrenching her gut. "Well, that was... dramatic." 

And with that little comment, she's whisked away by all the force a redheaded former-Sister of the Chantry can possess and to -- presumably -- the baths. 

* * *

"Why won't you _leave_?" she asks. 

He doesn't answer. 

"You won't even let me rest in peace?" 

Nothing still. 

"You think you've spared my life, not letting me bleed out," she tells him numbly. "But you're killing me. Slow; like a poison." 

His reply is but an echo in her own thoughts as she wakes in a cold sweat. 

_Ir abelas, ma vhen'an._

* * *

They all look at her as though she's mad. (so, she probably is.)

Cole can't even meet her eyes these days, it's so bad. Not even he wants to listen; to help. There is none to be had, she suspects, because the thing she fears the most is haunting her relentlessly, and she's not willing to let go of it, him, or anything. So, silence. It may not seem so bad, once she grows used to it. (she never will.) 

Varric is not one for overt or grand shows of comfort, but he offers her an escape in the form of Kirkwall, and immediately she can think of no place she'd rather _not_ make home. (yet, when he makes for the first ship out, she goes along. where else has she to be anyway?) 

Kirkwall is a shithole. The people are still angry and grieving but so is she in a way. 

Her first night in the _great_ city, a small elven child tries to mug her, stupidly mistaking her for an easy target. She somehow manages to not roll her eyes as she corrects his stance with his meager dagger, sends him off with a small pouch of gold, and a promise of snitching to the guard if she catches him pulling this stunt again. She probably shouldn't reward such reckless actions but his wide, dark grey eyes had reminded her of Mihren a little in the low light, and the tears glistening in them had reminded her of herself.

(the alienage's self-proclaimed 'Keeper' seeks her out not a few nights later, and introduces herself kindly -- but Dia already knows Merrill, she'd seen glimpses of her in the Fade where she'd left Hawke to die, and as she stares at the vallaslin etched into the gentle woman's face she feels even more wrought with guilt.) 

She leaves Kirkwall without purpose or a plan. 

The dreams don't stop but she hardly expects them to. For all she laments about missing him, it's evidently clear that he aches for her all the same. 

(it's the kind of love she'd read about in tragic epics way back as a small child. Andruil and Ghilan'nain, immortalized in the story of the misguided huntsman. Andruil had loved her so much she'd made her the first of the Halla rather than watch her suffer...  now she knows the truth-- that they were not kind, not gods, not worth remembering. but she cannot think of him in the same way, and anyway, he won't let her forget.) 

* * *

This time, she's woken by a wolf's tortured howling. 

* * *

On her travels, she stumbles upon Hawen's clan. 

(the sheer relief she feels upon the realization that he hasn't gotten to them is unexplainable.) 

Keeper Hawen's expression upon recognizing her can be compared to that of a young child sucking on a lemon for the first time. Needless to say, he's not pleased, but her ventures in the art of ass-kissery in the past keep him from throwing her out entirely. _It'd be in bad form_ , she muses to herself, watching his mouth contort into something of a muted scowl. 

"Your arm," he says gruffly, eying her bare face with evident distrust. "So it's true. The Inquisition is truly gone?" 

She sniffs indignantly. "I'm quite sure the Inquisition could carry on regardless of whether or not my arm was attached, but yes. It's gone. The displeasure of multiple Orlesian politicians is not so easy to dismiss, you see."  

"I see. Our clan is indebted to you, all the same. You are welcome to come and go as you wish, Inqui-- Ah, _Lavellan_." 

(it doesn't take long for her to make him regret that.) 

It's rather sad that the first elf to offer her attentions since... well...is also the first to coerce her to bed, or two-hastily-squished together  _bedrolls_ rather. 

(the hands in her hair are unfamiliar and wrong and she wants so badly for them to belong to the one her heart screams for.) 

Loranil is sweet and kind and everything she should want for herself now in the scheme of things. (but she does not. she knows what she wants, and he's gallivanting about Thedas plotting all the best ways to destroy them all.) He asks plainly, with a sheepish grin, before taking her. (Solas never did; words between them seemed meaningless.) Kissing someone else, laying down with them, once you've had the love of your life...she understands it now; why her mother had never re-married, or even courted the idea of taking another paramour. It isn't the same. It never will be again. 

She stays for a time solely because it's comfortable. 

This comfort ceases when Loranil begins bringing her gifts, implying something she will never be ready for, and so she leaves. (Hawen watches her run off in the night dawning the same lemon-sucking reproachful look on his aged face that he'd greeted her with, telling her enough to know she'd better not return... but she really hadn't planned to.) 

* * *

 He is angry. 

She is tired of running only to find no escape. 

"I'm not going to apologize for living," she tells him. "You did this. Whatever I am, you've made me this way." 

He says nothing. What can he? She's half-certain that if words were to pass between them, they'd both go completely mad. 

His hands, even in this world of dreams, are more than sufficient. 

This time, she wakes with her hand between her own legs and a slow smile touching her lips. 

* * *

 She doesn't want him to keep haunting her; just the same, she can't live _without_ him. 

(if this is the only way to keep him--and herself--in a state of at least something resembling happiness, she'll do what she must.) 

More men find her. Some try for more than she's willing to give, most do not. 

(he's always furious. she always wakes in bliss-- a far cry from the dreams of wolves chasing her, of the pain, and she wants _more_. she wants it just like this; always.) 

When an old friend finds her on one excursion through a tiny middle-of-nowhere village -- she's stopped keeping track of where her feet take her-- she feels electric currents buzzing beneath her skin for the first time since she freed herself of the mark. Warm honey-brown eyes crinkle at the sight of her, so she supposes she must not look quite as dead as she sometimes feels. She knows this face.

"Cullen," she greets lightly, surprised at how _normal_ her voice sounds considering the mess in her head. She's gone mad, hasn't she? Taking lovers to spite the one that's trying to kill them all... It sounds like something torn straight out of one of Varric's raunchy novels. 

"Hera--ah, _Dia_ ," he sounds genuinely glad to see her, which is odd, because she'd spent most of their time together ducking from him. They'd...never agreed on much, after all. Less than her and Leliana, even. Not to mention that his lyrium-related temper flares put her off on more than one occasion. Cruel as it may have been, she was not one to play babysitter or devil's advocate. The friendliness he regards her with now is surprising. What is _unsurprising_ is that she feels entirely undeserving, all things considered. "What brings you to, um, Ferelden? Last I'd heard you had settled somewhere with another clan...?" 

"Wandering," she answers simply. "You? Still reforming wayward Templars, showing them the light?" 

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, I wouldn't word it _quite_ like that, but yes, I suppose." 

For the first time in a long while, something like a sincere smile -- one not riddled in hasty lust, or satisfaction-- touches her lips. "That's...good of you." It sort of makes her question what exactly _she's_ doing. If someone as once troubled as Cullen can put aside his torment to help others, what does that say about her actions these past years? Her eyes flicker over his face; still handsome, still roguishly scarred. And yet, the last thing on her mind in this moment is how she's going to take him to bed to infuriate Solas for her own pitiful agenda. "That's really good of you," she affirms, more for her sake than his own. A reminder to herself. _Leave him out of this. He's good, better than you -- far better._

"Ah," he flushes, still unable to take any form of flattery, it seems. "And your travels? You look well. Perhaps you'd consider staying long enough to tell me about them over a round of ale?" 

"I... _okay_." 

And she can do this, she thinks. She had friends, once. How hard can it be? 

* * *

Somehow, his silence is worse than anything that came before.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how messed up is it that Solas doesn't even leave u alone after Trespasser like taking clingy ex to the extreme don't u think, good sir??? ? stop torturing my elf child u absolute fucker she is FRAGILE


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She lets him see more than she means to in those first nights after Haven is destroyed.
> 
> A large part of him wishes he had seen nothing at all.

 

* * *

 When they find her, covered in snow and dried blood in equal measures, she won't stop screaming for her father. 

* * *

 A girl of maybe five or less stares beyond him with wide, whiskey eyes. She doesn't seem to register his presence, or the fact that they are surrounded by spirits bustling around, keeping themselves busy. Her eyes are focused on something far off, and he cannot shake the familiarness of this child, in her long crimson locks and freckled nose. 

It's only when the faint smell of smoke reaches him and he watches her eyes widen in terror that he understands. 

 _"Mamae!_ " she screams shrilly, voice tinkling like bells -- and though it's matured in the years to pass, he indeed recognizes it. She seems stricken, looking for something. Someone. _Her mother_...? The scent of smoke draws nearer, and when the child breaks into a run chasing it, he hesitates. 

Inevitably, he follows, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. 

"Don't! Mamae, don't! Don't let them!"

He swallows at the desperation, the sheer terror in her voice. 

.. _.What happened?_

"He's not dead, Mamae! Don't let them take him! He can't be!" 

_Ah._

_Dalish Burial Rites_ , he thinks, watching as the little girl begins tugging at the skirts of one wandering spirit, who regards her with maternal patience. The spirit touches her tiny head, brushes her hair from her eyes, and speaks to her softly. He is just close enough to catch, " _Ma’vherain_ , all will be well. You need not weep so. Your father rests peacefully now, little one." 

"He's. not. dead! You can't bury him, he's--!" 

The spirit he recognizes as _Faith_ now wipes gingerly at the tears gathering in the young one's eyes. "The hurt consumes you, I can see it. And yet, just so, with time it will lessen. Your heart is big enough to keep your father's memory and to continue to grow, even if you cannot see it yet, Falon'Dia of Lavellan." 

"That's not my name! I've told you, I hate it!" 

Faith laughs lightly. "Dia, then." 

It's then, when a much younger Dia begins weeping anew, that he truly feels the part of an intruder, and so he leaves. 

* * *

Her lips are blue when he next sees her. There's a peaceful expression upon her face, but he isn't fooled, for she shivers violently every so often.

The Tevinter mage fixes him with a pitying look. "We're doing what we can, but... I am no healer." 

"Leave her to me." 

"...Ah, but you must sleep sometime, yes? I hear that's...what you do." 

" _Leave her_ ," he repeats firmly, in such a way that even Dorian draws back a bit, " _To me_." 

* * *

 

She is older now, perhaps just reaching the peak of her adolescence. Her hair is more familiar now, cropped just below her jaw, the fronts tied back in braids similar to the ones he'd found her with in Haven. The freckles on her cheeks are more pronounced, like she'd spent days among days basking in the sun, just to get them to appear more prominently. Perhaps most noticeably, she looks _happy;_ her eyes are alight with the sort joy only children can understand. 

She's such a force of light here that it is entirely unsurprising she's stalked by Fear demons and spirits of Curiosity alike. He's certain, were she aware of her own Fade dreaming at current, she'd be entirely displeased with this revelation -- it makes him smile, a little. He sets wards as he walks, following her lighthearted footsteps through the forests of what he can only assume was once her home. 

"Mihren," she calls, voice lilting; still young, less harsh than the one he knows. "This isn't funny! If we don't make it back before sundown, Deshanna will have us cleaning up after the Halla for weeks!" 

A spirit of Curiosity peers out from behind a tree. Her eyes narrow at it. "There you are," she sniffs, evidently above all this ' _Mihren's_ ' trickery. "I'm sure you think this is all very amusing, but, _you_ aren't the one being constantly scrutinized, Lethal'lin. If I step one toe out of line, no more swordplay for me -- I can kiss my spot among the Hunters goodbye." 

Curiosity practically buzzes with excitement. "Hunters? What are you 'hunting' exactly?" 

Dia's eyebrows furrow, confused. "What do you mean what are we 'hunting'? Food, of course. There's also the matter of patrols...to keep the clan safe? Is none of this ringing a bell? Have you hit your head, or something?" A snide expression crosses her face, and Solas is stricken by how familiar it looks -- he's seen it on more than one occasion, naturally. "I shouldn't be surprised...  _taren'din_. Come on," she says, grabbing the spirit by the elbow, who looks ultimately excited -- per usual -- and drags them towards the camp in the distance.

Solas watches them go, feeling perplexed. 

* * *

In her numbed state, her mouth attempts to form words.

He gently pushes her back down as she tries to sit up. "Rest." 

"But-- _he-_ -!" 

"Rest," he repeats kindly, keeping his tone soft. "We may speak when you are well." 

It isn't long before she drifts back to sleep, exhaustion ultimately claiming her. 

* * *

She is an adult now; the elven woman he recognizes most effectively -- her face is no longer bare, and the thought sends an age old ache through his bones. There aren't any dark circles haunting the spaces beneath her eyes, and she maybe appears a touch softer than usual, but still he knows this woman above all the other incarnations. 

Solas watches as she keenly observes her surroundings as a well-trained hunter ought, only flinching at the overwhelming, shadowy figure that approaches the minute she reaches for her sword. 

He recognizes, at once, the familiar aura of a Fear demon. The wards he's been meticulously setting will keep her safe from immediate danger from anything but her own mind. 

" _Death approaches_ ," says the demon, smiling grotesquely, speaking in perfectly fluid Elvish. Something about the tone and wording sends a chill along Solas' spine, though he disregards it as nostalgia and longing for a language long since (mostly) forgotten. 

He witnesses the stiffening of her shoulders, the way she lifts her sword --entirely prepared for battle -- and finds himself transfixed by the mystifying appearance of the stranger. His face keeps shifting, as though her mind cannot comprehend the true face he should wear; the one constant being distinctly pointed ears. An elf -- one that, apparently, inspires grand amounts of fear in her subconscious mind... _Interesting_. If anything, he would have expected the figure to contort into Corypheus himself, and yet... 

"It never left," she replies grimly. 

" _You suppose you can fight me, little one?_ " 

"I do." 

Solas almost smiles because _of course_ , even faced with Fear itself, she remains stubborn. 

"I'm not afraid of you anymore, _Falon'Din_." 

His blood runs cold.

No. 

There's no -- It's _impossible._

The raw fear is enough to drown out all common sense. 

* * *

He runs to her, to find her slowly waking with a strange look upon her face. 

She stares at him. He imagines he must be quite the sight, barreling in as he did, for seemingly no reason. 

"Solas?" she asks, her voice hoarse. 

His eyes flicker over her face -- healthier, much, much healthier -- but Falon'Din's vallaslin still remains etched in violet ink on her fair skin. A claim that has no right to her, this woman who has saved them all at the risk of her own life. That mark, he knows, does not belong on her; perhaps, even, he'd not wish it on anyone. But most pressingly, _her_. It sends an ancient, thousand year old twist of anger through his gut to think of her existing in a time where that mark would brand her as anything but unabashedly _free_.

There's a war raging anew in his mind that has been settled for centuries.

And yet, all he can truly bring himself to offer is a simple, "I am here." 

When she responds with a worn smile, it feels less of a lie.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma’vherain: my lion cub, my baby lion etc.
> 
> The problem with writing these things out of chronological order is that I forget important things like Dia was Fade-walking mid-Haven, and so this story makes little sense ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) However cos I'm too stubborn to re-write, we'll say that her injuries she'd sustained kept her from being completely lucid and that's the only reason Solas gets away with being a creeper 
> 
> Dia also has a very antagonistic relationship w/ her namesake & the bearer of her vallaslin, even before she understands what it means. She thinks it something of a cruel joke that her mother would give her a name meaning loosely (in my own canon, literally there is no source that sites 'Dia' as being the feminine alternative to 'Din') Friend/Child of Death, only to lose her father later. I like to think she took Falon'Din's vallaslin to be purely ironic bc she's kind of a brat?? lmao Anyway, I am in no way implying that Falon'Din is returning from his rightful place in Elf Storage, the Fear demon was entirely just her own issues w/ the unfortunate branding manifesting dramatically


End file.
